


The Tale of the Time-Travelling Archon

by coveredinfeels



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Ensemble Cast, M/M, Obnoxious Brat Dorian Pavus, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 23:32:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6214546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredinfeels/pseuds/coveredinfeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(only without time-travel, and he's not the Archon)</p><p>There are probably universes in which Dorian Pavus, faced with a bunch of unfamiliar magical items in a Venatori hideout, wouldn't go <i>I wonder what this does</i> and poke at things until something happened.</p><p>Unfortunately, for him and everyone else, this is not one of those universes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tale of the Time-Travelling Archon

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel of sorts to [How the Seeker got her Humph](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4715126) although if you haven't read that, all you need to know is that in this universe, Cassandra and Dorian once met as kids in Nevarra and it was Altogether Terrible.

The first Bull knows of it is the morning after they return to Skyhold, fresh from rummaging through a Venatori hideout full of a bunch of shitty mages and then a whole bunch of magey shit. They'd had a time of it stopping Dorian from bringing back anything more dangerous than a couple of books, with all the poking about he'd been doing, something about similarities to Alexius' magic and other such shit Bull doesn't understand and has no intent of learning about, thank you very much.

Fire, ice, lightning, he gets that; gets the usefulness of it when it's pointed at somebody not you. Barriers, sure, Dorian's saved his skin a few times with those.

But could he maybe back off on the stuff that's likely to put another hole in the sky or perhaps just summon a bunch of demons and crap? He's thankful that Adaar had been with him on team “Random Magic Crap: Just Say No”.

Adaar might be Vashoth, and a mage, but she's no fool. One thing she _is_ is an incurable romantic, which would be cute if she wasn't insistent on considering his and Dorian's ongoing sexual tension from a decidedly flowery, Orlesian sort of viewpoint.

Eventually, Dorian will show his hand, one way or another, and then Bull will either have to quit flirting with him, which will be a shame, or there will be sex, which he suspects will be fantastic. In the meantime, his boys are running a betting pool and Adaar keeps trying to find excuses to throw them together, in the apparent belief that maybe if she just keeps them hanging about in the Emerald Graves or wherever on the basis of the vaguest rumour of yet another rift, they'll eventually do something that might be classed as 'romantic'.

This, he knows, is why he's been sent to see what's keeping Dorian from breakfast. Still, it's no hardship. Might catch him before he's had a chance to get himself all dolled up, get him all flustered. Good look on him.

Instead, however, what he sees is a boy in the corridor just outside Dorian's rooms. Ten or so, at a guess. He's barefoot, wearing what appears to be-- huh, that _is_ one of Dorian's undershirts, as a tunic, roughly belted with what he is fairly certain is one of Dorian's belts, and the staff that he's clutching, despite the fact that even with both hands he's struggling and the blade end is dragging on the ground, is definitely the same one Bull saw Dorian use to set quite a few Venatori on fire yesterday.

It's the little mark by his eye that really makes Bull think, _oh shit_.

Then he realises that there is a tiny 'vint mage in front of him who has just seen a very large Qunari come around the corner, and judging by the shriek and the blast of flame that goes over his head, scorching the ceiling, Dorian does not remember who The Iron Bull is.

He abandons the staff, after that, darting through a door that leads to one of the narrower stairwells. Bull could squeeze his way through down after him, but it won't be quick. 

Smart kid, if that was on purpose. Shit, _smart mage kid_ , this is going to be trouble.

A quick glance at Dorian's room-- no Dorian, looks like some sort of storm's been in it-- somewhat confirms his fear.

Fucking magic crap. He definitely needs some backup on this one.

* * *

Sera sees this kid, barefoot and shivering, trying to sneak around and not being very clever about it. “Oi.” she says, dropping down behind him.

He jumps-- makes this funny awkward motion-- and stares at her, then seems to relax after a moment. “Did you see where the Qunari went?”

“Which one?” Because Adaar was being dragged off to do important-people things, last Sera saw, instead of important _people_ things, as she would prefer. It's good that Adaar doesn't forget that she's people, but sometimes Sera likes to remind her. The boy looks all wide-eyed and scared at her. “Are you _scared_ of Qunari, or something?” 

“They _eat children_.” the boy says, glaring at her. “And I'm not scared. And you're weird and your hair is weird, so there.”

“The only Qunari I know who eats people, they're usually asking for it. Like, stupid loud, some of them, trust me.” It's a pity that her Bit aint much for wailing, because she'd really like to get him back, one of these days. Nights. Mornings. Lunchtimes. Whenever, really.

But thinking of people The Iron Bull would like to 'eat', she thinks how the kid sort of looks like fussy-britches, in a kind of tiny, shivering way. He's even got the little mole thing (she can hear him say _beauty mark_ in the back of her head, ugh), right in the same place.

She reaches out to touch it, because it's really right in the exact same place, and he dances back, wide-eyed. “You shouldn't do that.” he says, all earnest-like she just tried to step over a trip-wire. “I'm an Altus. I don't have my birthright here, but I _am_. You'll get in trouble.”

Altus, like-- Dorian's thing that he is that isn't a Magister, the one with less evil laughing? Is he a relative, or something? “Pfft. I don't care about trouble.”

The boy stares at her for a moment more. “You're the weirdest slave I've ever met.” he declares.

It's Cassandra who comes across them first, while Sera is teaching this kid not to call people slaves, and then finding out that _shit_ , kid's a mage, and then also, tiny shouty mages _can't_ set you on fire very well when you're rubbing their face in the dirt. “ _Sera_.” she says, bossy-britches voice, which, okay, not _un_ -hot, and then stares at the kid when Sera lets him go. “Dorian?”

* * *

A good many years ago – never mind _exactly_ how many – Cassandra Pentaghast met a very rude little necromancer who declared himself the future Archon of Tevinter and talked non-stop about his father and dead things, in equal measure.

As far as she can tell, the necromancy and the superiority complex are the parts that survived puberty. By a sort of unspoken agreement, they've never spoken of three and a half days in Nevarra that don't really put either of them in the best light. Or at least, that's Cassandra's feeling.

Maker help her, but she doesn't exactly blame Sera for her reaction. Exactly how this happened, she is not sure, but what very quickly becomes clear is one thing: no matter if this is an illusion or a demon or some magic she is unfamiliar with, Dorian Pavus, aged nine and three-quarters, is exactly as infuriating as she remembers.

“You got old.” is the first thing he says to her.

She supposes she should be grateful he actually recognises her. “Actually, you have gotten younger. It is many years since we met.”

He pauses, in consideration. “I travelled in time?”

“Not... precisely.” She thinks, at least.

“Like you know anything about magic, anyway.” he says in return, waving a hand at her. “It's supposed to be _impossible_ , you know. I've done the _impossible_. I'm _awesome_. I'm going to be the first Archon to have _travelled through time_.”

 _Exactly_ as infuriating as she remembers.

* * *

Considering what Cassandra knows of young Dorian, the choice of-- supervisor-- is obvious. Dorian will only listen to another mage, is apparently terrified of Qunari, as they find out when the Inquisitor arrives to see what's going on, and his opinions on elves, as discovered when Solas attempts to discern what has occurred, should really not be voiced at all.

“Father says,” he starts, and Cassandra remembers what generally followed those two words, and winces in preparation, “that elves can't do proper, civilised magic.”

Solas doesn't even flinch. “I am not interested in Halward Pavus' opinion of my capabilities as a mage.” There is the slightest deliberate pause after the word _opinion_.

Dorian smirks, tilting his chin up. “But you _have_ heard of him. Because my father is a Magister and really really really important, and you're a stupid bald elf who dresses funny.” He turns to Cassandra. “I know you don't know anything about magic, but can't you find a _proper_ mage to help?”

“I will consult with my friends.” Solas says. “There is nothing more to learn here for the moment.”

“I don't think he really _has_ any friends.” Dorian tells her, as Solas departs. He says it quite loudly.

Thankfully, that is the moment that Vivienne decides to arrive.

The transformation is quite startling. She fixes Dorian with a singular look and then informs him that the first order of business will be a bath, and then more appropriate garments. He straightens, not entirely cowed but at least polite, and agrees.

So they at least get him cleaned up and properly dressed before the inevitable happens. It starts off very well; Vivienne offers him tea, and perhaps cake, in return for her assistance in a few _experiments_ of a magical nature. “All well within the abilities of a young prodigy such as yourself, I'm sure.” she says, and Dorian preens predictably under the attention.

“Father says I'm the best talent the Pavus family has produced in _generations.”_

A small smile plays across Vivienne's lips. “I think I would be willing to agree on _that_ particular point. You may leave us, Cassandra. We have mages' business to conduct here.”

Dorian gives her the smuggest look she's ever seen on a ten-year-old, but there seems little point in doing anything but agreeing; she cannot, personally, do anything until they've established what has gone wrong and how to fix it, hopefully by fighting demons.

Dear Maker and Blessed Andraste, let it be something as simple as fighting demons.

She doesn't find out the details of what, exactly, happens after her departure. She merely hears rumours of a small child running through the corridors and returns to where she'd left Dorian to find a servant picking up pieces of a tea set and Vivienne, tight-lipped and coldly furious.

“I have never lowered myself so far as to strike a child.” she says. “But--”

Ah, yes, Cassandra knows this feeling. “It _is_ tempting to give him a good smack, I agree.”

“I was at least able to determine that the condition is self-correcting.” Vivienne tells her. “Given a day or two, and presuming nothing unfortunate happens to him first, he will revert to the slightly less infuriating child that we are _used_ to having underfoot.”

Very carefully veiled, that note of relief in Vivienne's voice. Since Cassandra has also grown rather fond of their resident Tevinter mage, she does not comment on it.

* * *

Hang around with Hawke long enough, and you develop a sort of finely tuned sense for Trouble. All past events considered, obviously not finely tuned enough, but sufficient that Varric side-steps when frozen-- _something_ whistles down from the rooftops. Whatever it is leaves a vaguely unpleasant scent wafting upwards as it melts on the cobblestones.

“Dwarves are spoil-sports.” Sera calls down. Beside her, a tiny dark head, somewhat familiar but in miniature and presumably responsible for the 'frozen' part of things, is only just visible over the edge of the roof.

“I thought you didn't like the kid.” An understatement. He'd seen Sera just after Cassandra had escorted the latest reason This Shit Is Weird off to get fixed. In the reversal of magic sense, not in the gelding sense, although at that moment he thought Sera might agree to either plan. The phrase _choke on his own piss_ had been involved.

Sera shrugs. “Turns out he's not so bad.”

Well, that was great for them, and boded terribly for everyone else involved. “The Seeker's heading this way, looking for Dorian.” he tells her. “Maybe relocate down by the West Tower, pretty sure I saw some Orlesian nobles out to _take the air_.”

Sera gives him a thumbs up. “Will do. Ta!” He thinks he hears something along the lines of _I want to talk to the dwarf!_ from their miniature Pavus, but Sera seems to have him well in hand.

What can he say; it just seems a little unfair to set Seeker Pentaghast on a poor, nearly-defenceless mageling. The fact that he's just sent them to the exact opposite end of Skyhold from the location where he was hoping to sit and do some writing this fine afternoon has _nothing_ to do with it.

* * *

After an exhausting day fruitlessly chasing a child all around Skyhold, Cassandra returns to her rooms, hoping that one of Cullen's soldiers will have located Dorian in the meanwhile. Who knew one small boy could be so good at hiding?

Well, Sera, although she'd claimed he'd run away from her as well. Cassandra suspects she knows exactly how Dorian has evaded pursuit, and supposes she should be happy it didn't involve any rats this time around. She forgot how advanced a mage could be, so young. How-- _driven_. It is certainly an admirable quality, at least until turned to the purposes of mischief and mayhem.

It seems she has forgotten to lock her door. Also, directly inside, a pair of muddy boots, swiftly acquired this morning out of the small stock of things they had to fit a child, and which had been nearly entirely rejected for not matching the rest of the outfit, until she'd told him some slightly exaggerated tales about frostbite.

Also, a pile of every blanket in her bedroom, atop her bed, surrounded by discarded books, with a muddy, sniffling child at the centre of it. “Your books are still dumb and full of kissing.” he informs her.

“At least one of those statements is a matter of opinion.” Although she's certainly not going to argue literature with this version of Dorian. Preferably not with _any_ version of Dorian; his commentary is too often too close to the mark. “Although I do not think you are crying over my poor taste in reading material.”

“I'm _not_ crying.” There is a long pause. Dorian doesn't remember the years between their first meeting, but in those years, Cassandra has learnt to wait. Eventually, he speaks up again, gaze flicking to her and away again. “Sera said I'm not Archon. Sera said I don't even live in Tevinter any more. And then she said bad things about Father.”

“It's... complicated.”

“It's not complicated. I failed. When I go back to my proper time I will fix it.” He bites his lip. She has no doubt that from where they're hidden beneath the blankets, his fists are clenched.

Somehow, she didn't remember that _this_ was beneath the brattishness and bravado. “You have not failed.”

He glares at her, intense; it makes her fancy she smells smoke in the air. It would be excessive, to use the skills of a Seeker on a child. Knowing what she does of Dorian's talent, even at this age, perhaps it will be necessary. Not yet, however. “Father always says I will bring great honor to the Pavus name. How could I possibly do that when I'm _here_? It's cold and it smells and it's crawling with savages.”

She knows enough now to hear the echo of his father's voice in _savages_ , and doesn't bother with a correction. “Do you even know what we are doing here?”

He scrunches up his face, yanking the blankets closer. “Dying slowly of cold in a stupid fortress on a stupid mountain?”

“We are here to fight against someone who would see all of Thedas destroyed, Tevinter included. _You_ came here to fight, to protect Tevinter. Rather heroic of you, actually.”

The adult version of Dorian Pavus hardly needs any boost to his ego, but the words have the soothing effect on the child that she was hoping for. She can nearly see the word _heroic_ ricocheting around in his little head. “I suppose I can become Archon _after_ I'm done being a time-travelling hero.”

It's almost charming, the way he bounces back. “I suppose so.”

“Have I _killed people?_ ”

“That's-- not really the point I was trying to make, Dorian.”

“Have _you_ killed people?” He nearly lights up at the thought. “Have you ever chopped someone's head off? Have you chopped someone's head off and put it on a spike and put the spike on a wall so everyone can see?”

To think for a moment she felt sorry for him. “ _Ugh_.”

* * *

He wakes slowly, to an unfamiliar, slightly floral scent, warm blankets with that _itch_ that always seems to come with wool in the south, and a set of memories that somewhat suggest he perhaps overpartook of some local hallucinogenic delicacy.

Also, Cassandra Pentaghast is standing over him, casually dressed, which makes him realise he is _naked_. “Please give me an explanation for why I am in your bed that _makes sense_.”

“You fell asleep while I was reading Tale of the Champion to you.” Cassandra informs him. There might be just a little glee in her voice. “You made me do the voices. I take it you remember the events of yesterday?”

“I was hoping that was some sort of unfortunate fever dream. With all the unhygienic places Adaar insists on dragging me, I wouldn't be at all surprised if I had caught some sort of hideous, uncultured southern disease.”

“ _I_ hope this will teach you a valuable lesson about meddling with unfamiliar Venatori magic.” she says, and places a folded pile of clothing at the end of the bed. It appears to be some of his. “Here. I figured what you were wearing might not survive the reversal process.”

“It has taught me a valuable lesson about _checking for magical traps_ when meddling with unfamiliar Venatori magic.” he retorts, at her retreating back. Once Cassandra and her maiden eyes are safely out of the room, he checks the pile.

A surprisingly thoughtful set of choices. Not an outfit he'd often wear, but soft and comfortable and perfect for a day when he rather feels like hiding in the library until the sense of abject shame passes. There's even a pot of kohl, so he is feeling altogether rather more fit for public viewing by the time he emerges to where Cassandra is waiting in her sitting room. There is a folded blanket on the end of the couch; she must have slept out here.

“An unexpected thing to say, but I think I must thank you for your taste.” he says.

“I'm afraid it's not my taste.” Cassandra answers. “I didn't want to leave you on your own, so I asked The Iron Bull to fetch you some things.”

Now there's a funny thought, the Qunari spy picking out his outfit. Or rather, it ought to be funny. “Well.” There are so many things he could say to that. “Thank you for the thought, then.”

* * *

He decides that even the library feels a little too public at the moment, so his own quarters it is. There is a scorch-mark on the ceiling of the corridor, just a little way down from his room, as if he needed further confirmation that this whole terrible business was real.

To add to his troubles, there is also a quite familiar Qunari. “Morning, Dorian. Good to see you back.”

Easy for him to say. Apparently. “And a good morning to you.” A few more steps, and he can duck through his door and bury his head in his pillows for the next forever, or however long it takes people to forget this whole mess. “Thank you for your assistance, incidentally.”

“Figured you might want your armour.” The Iron Bull says, calmly. “But hey, at least you're not afraid I'm going to eat you any more.”

 _Your armour_. Is he so terribly transparent, or does The Iron Bull see more of Dorian with that one eye of his than most do with two? In lieu of an answer to the question, he chooses to divert. The Iron Bull has left him the perfect opening after all. “Afraid?” Drops his gaze, a long-practised tactic from a world where invitations are seldom made in anything so unsubtle as words. “No, I wouldn't say _afraid_.”

The Iron Bull laughs, and Dorian intends to use the moment to push past, only there's no need, as he steps aside. “Get some more rest.”

He really hates not getting the last word in. “Why, are you expecting me to need it?”

The Iron Bull doesn't respond, except with a lingering look.

Dorian has no answer for it, damn him.

* * *

He supposes he should be glad that the effects were only temporary.

The most lasting repercussion is that Cassandra seems to have taken this entire sequence of unfortunate events as a cue to tell rather inaccurate stories about Dorian's first ever visit to Nevarra. Which she is quite happy to repeat when asked, to an ever-growing audience.

Honestly, try to steal a horse for a unscheduled midnight ride to the Grand Necropolis _once_ , and nobody ever lets you forget it.


End file.
